


Three Is Better Than Two

by Emerald_Shadow



Category: Miraculous Ladybug, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, F/F, M/M, Pining John Watson, marie antoinette holmes, more Holmeses!!!, what if there was another holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-25 09:15:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22153648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emerald_Shadow/pseuds/Emerald_Shadow
Summary: When Sherlock and John receive a text that says, 'Marinette Dupain-Cheng has been murdered' followed shortly by an address from DI Lestrade, John does not expect to meet another relative of Sherlock's but least of all does he expect him to immediately phone Mycroft to inform him of this development. Though, in hindsight, it makes sense.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 122





	1. Chapter 1

Marinette had expected a lot of things when she came, though on that list of things police officers were not very high - though they did participate, but they were not there for the reason she suspected. She wasn’t sure what that reason was but it didn’t really matter because the reason it turned out to be for a much more interesting reason than any other she could have hoped for. 

She ascended the stairs within moments of hearing about it from her roommates - she refused to perfectly conform with the English terminology for a lot of reasons, the least of them being that she couldn't care any less for it all. One of her roommates, Allyson was murdered! How fun!

Marinette pushed past officers and ducked under their arms, keeping as far out of their reach as she could. She couldn’t let anyone stop her, this was the first interesting thing to happen to her in months. Moving to London had been a very intelligent decision on her part but also very boring. Working as a tailor was all fine and dandy and working out what her clients were hiding was fun too but it got old quick, especially since it was almost always the exact same thing - affair, spouse having an affair, addict, or some other kind of family drama. Boring. Though watching them fumble as she casually asked about those things was entertaining in any case.

Oh but a murder! And right in her home! Those were fun! And exciting and so many more words that she didn’t want to waste time with. There was no reason to, since she had made it to the room, thank Kwami. Those cops were a little bothersome, trying to stop her but in the end it didn’t matter. She was much more than capable of getting away from them of course, but it was fun to string them along. 

Her bluebell eyes flickered across the entryway as she threw open the door, noting the pollen in the air and the red rose petals on the ground. Oh, that’s good. A fun little detail that these ignorant cops wouldn’t notice. She already had a hunch and that was lovely conformation. She took a quick glance around the living room too. Nothing missing, no paintings, jewellery or otherwise. The body wasn’t in this room either. A wee bit of reporting to the scene of events than. Not out of the bedroom. She wouldn’t have run to the bedroom if she was expecting the visit or if she had even left it that morning before she died. Finally, she made it to the bedroom where Allyson’s body still lay, blood stains around her on the sheets. And there was a second body in the bed too -and it was half hanging off of the bed too, with the head on the ground! Lovely! Multiple stab wounds too, on both bodies and on multiple locations. Crime of passion than. That solved it. 

The spark in her eyes died a little bit, the fire that flared in her chest reducing to embers once more. How dull. It was the boyfriend. Of course it was . It was so obvious but the cops were still investigating. One didn’t have to be clever to figure that out. Even the cops could have figured that out by now. Or at least they should have. How really dull. She let her shoulders drop momentarily before straightening out once again, and whirled around on her heel. 

“Alright then, I do believe you’re looking at a crime of passion. One that’s pretty easy to solve in any case.” Marinette smiled faintly at the officers present, in a manner that she knew would garentedly put them at ease while also making them listen to her. It was a smile that was great for interviews of all kinds. 

“Allyson Watters was killed by one Jonathan Morse, her now ex-boyfriend I suppose.” She said in a competitive tone, before shaking herself and continuing, “ Anyway. It was clearly a crime of passion, judging from the multiple stab wounds, the flower petals in the hallways, specifically red roses indicat romantic gift. The only person who lives here and has a significant other is Allyson but the person in the bed with her is not Jonathan, I should know, there is a picture of the two of them in the living room. The wall across from the telly, I believe. Forth picture from the left. He obviously walked in on Allyson in bed with another man, who was probably a one night stand judging from the hasty removal of the clothes, the alcohol on the nightstand and the fact that I;ve seen him here before but never with Allsyon. Britany’s friend if I’m right. Of course I’m right, he is the typical frat guy that she likes. How dull. Anyway, Jonathan used one of the kitchen knives, steak knife if I’m right -of course I am- and threw it out of the window, into the dumpster behind the house. It still has blood on it. Allyson was struck first, then her lover. He stabbed her in the stomach, she woke up and screamed. That woke her lover up and Jonathan stabbed him in the head. He died instantly but Jonathan stabbed him a few more times because, as I said, it's a crime of passion. From the brusing around her neck, which is fresh and not faded, ruling out some rather telling things about how she prefers to be treated during sex, Jonathan choked her at the same time as stabbing her. There was a lot of blood splatter, so he was probably covered in blood, but he stayed overnight a lot and that means he always has a change of clothes in her room. The drawer is slightly open and messy, which doesn’t fit because the rest of Allyson’s room is very tidy and neat, and the drawer is filled with men’s clothing too. He probably threw the bloody clothes out with the knife - someone really should check that dumpster by the way, there is a lot of evidence in that thing.” She pointed out the window with a look that parents usually wore when pointing out the obvious to their children.

Silence dominated the room for a full minute before a startled laugh sounded across the room. Marinette’s eyes immediately locked onto the perpetrator. A middle aged man with salt and pepper hair, very tired, has been doing this for a long time. Experienced. Fun one. And he knows a little something than. And of course, he wasn’t opposed to her presence, he stopped two different officers from interfering with her multiple times. 

“I take it you know Sherlock than.” Marinette said with a sigh and an expreated look, “Mind bringing him here would you?”

“It wouldn’t be easy but I could probably do it. Somehow.” the officer shrugged and opened his phone.   
“Tell him Marinette Dupain-Cheng has been murdered and give him the address. Should be here in about twenty to fifteen minutes depending on how much he cares about traffic laws. Not much I expect. He never did.” The short, curly haired woman smiled nostalgically and sighed.

Lestarde sent the text and half a minute later, he got a reply, “He is on his way. Never answers so quickly.”

“Alright, than. Give him twenty. In the meanwhile, stop standing around and go get the damn clothes and knife. Tracking Jonathan Morse down too would be a good idea, wouldn’t it?” She suggested kindly, an encouraging smile on her lips. That’s how she differed from Sherlock and Mycroft. She was kind, helpful and good at emotions. Manipulating them too, but that’s besides the point at the moment. 

“Good God, there is another one of them.” A curly haired female groaned and glared at Marinette. 

Marinette just smiled at her indulgently and scrunched her nose up a little bit, “Yeah. We are quite the lot, aren’t we?”


	2. Chapter 2

Marinette stood in the doorway of the apartment she shared with with four -now three- other girls with her arms crossed, hip cocked, and an expression that could only possibly be described as disappointed/anxious-parent-waiting-to-tell-off-their-child-who-stayed-out-after-curfew. It was a strange and frightening expression to see on such a sweet, young face, especially the fact that she wore it while waiting for Sherlock bloody Holmes. 

“Sherlock!” John Watson’s voice floated up the stairs, a frightened and frantic quality to it, closely followed by the sound of rapid, heavy footsteps on the old, worn wood of the staircase. 

Marinette’s scowl deepened as she began to silently mouth, “five...four…” the floorboard at the end of the top landing squeaked, “three…” the sound of thick fabric bellowing and brisk footsteps against the carpeted floor followed. “Two…” there was another frantic shout of “Sherlock!” as John Watson made it up the stairs, a few meters behind Sherlock himself.

“One.” she said out loud as Sherlock Holmes himself turned the corner and barely stopped himself from running into the petite form of Marinette Dupain-Cheng in the flesh. He stopped an arm’s length away, eyes narrow and cold and wild as he looked her over a couple of times. 

“Mar-” his words were cut off by the sound of flesh violently meeting flesh. The much shorter dark haired woman’s hand was still raised as Sherlock stared at her, startled. John managed to make it around the corner in time to witness this and he himself let out a startled squeak/laugh. He had expected someone to slap Sherlock quiet soundly sooner or later but he hadn’t expected it to happen with a minute of them arriving at a scene. A new record, that. 

Marinette once again cut him off but not by slapping him again -though she did look like she wanted to repeat the action to even out the blooming redness on Sherlock’s right cheek and the fulness of his left. She began yelling at him, her eyes alight with fury that John recognized. Well, this was going to be interesting.

“Mange tes morts! Tu poule mouillée! Con comme une valise sans poignée! Bête comme ses pieds! Tete de poeud! Blaineau! Vous une énorme cass couille! Vous le roi des cons! Tu as le QI d’une huitre!” As she went on, the french woman’s eyes began to fill with tears, a few escaping her eyes and rolling down her cheeks as she checked Sherlock over. She patted down his arms, checked the pulse in both his wrists, back up to his shoulders and to his neck, where she again checked his pulse. She patted down his sides and back up, her palm against the left side of his chest, taking shaky breaths as she felt for his heartbeat. 

“I can admit that I deserve the insults but is this really-” the bloody git was cut off by Marinette stepping forward and closing the distance between them. She wrapped her shaking arms around his torso, her fingers curling into the fabric of his coat and holding him in place. She pressed her face against his scarf as her shoulder began to shake and broken sobs broke from her throat, muffled by the knit blue fabric of Sherlock’s scarf. 

“Shut up you stupid git and hug me!” her muffled words were barely audible to even Sherlock but he obeyed nonetheless. He petted the short mop of curly blue-black hair atop her head, so very similar to his own, as he sighed. 

“I’m not dead.” Sherlock said lowly, “I’m right here in the flesh and I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s good to know after two years of thinking you’re dead!” the french woman’s voice was loud and thickly accented, much more than it was when she as providing her analysis of the crime scene not half an hour ago, but there was no longer any bite to it.

“Yes, that must have been quite unpleasant.” the consulting detective mused, earning a tense chuckle from the small woman in his arms.

“Kwami damnit Sherly! You’re so thick!” Marinette threw her head back and laughed, salty tear trails covering her cheeks and darkening a small patch of Sherlock’s already dark blue scarf.   
“You made me believe you were dead -murdered in fact- just now. Calling me out on faking my death is just a tad hypocritical now, isn’t it?” Sherlock sounded genuinely curious and antagonizing but Marinette heard the teasing undertone in his voice.

“For twenty minutes! Not two years! There is a pretty big difference!” Marinette withdrew completely and smacked Sherlock playfully on the arm and glared at him mildly. 

“Sorry, what’s happening?” Donavan’s voice cut through the air, her chocolate eyes flickering from Sherlock to Marinette to John than repeating the cycle, “Do you know what’s going on?” She was clearly addressing John and so he answered.

“It’s the first time she saw him since he faked his death.” John had had that susupon from the moment she slapped him but it was obvious now. How Donovan didn’t gather that much yet amazed him. Oh God, he was starting to sound like Sherlock.

“Ah.” was Donavan’s only answer as she averted her gaze and focused on anything that wasn’t the three of them.

“Did you retrieve the knife than? And the clothes?” Marinette’s gently probing but firm parent act was in use once again as she quirked an eyebrow at Donovan. 

“No ma’am,” Donovan said embarrassed and shuffled off in search of said items.   
“Knife and clothes?” John asked, bracing himself for a long winded explanation.

“One of my roommates and her one night stand were stabbed to death by her boyfriend. He threw the bloody clothes and knife out the window and into the dumpster behind the building.” Marinette said simply, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms as she scrutinized the police still milling about.   
“How did you get rid of Donavan so quickly?” Sherlock asked, his eyes trained on Marinette, his desperate need to know something clear in the way his eyes were narrowed and the slight darting of his attentions between the sergeant and Marinette. 

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know already.” Marinette quirked an eyebrow in a manner very telling as to how she saw his behavior.

“I know the technique you used but not why it was effective. I have tried it before myself and it did not work out half as well.” Next to Sherlock, John snorted. Yeah. He has witnessed some of Sherlock’s attempts at getting Donavan to leave them alone but none of them worked. Some of them had backfired spectacularly actually. 

“I’m not condescending.” Here she paused and John could almost feel the annoyance and not-quite-disbelief-but-close-enough radiating off of Sherlock. “Well, not out right anyway. A bit of constant subtlety and playing into ingrained instincts from childhood makes it very easy too.” A smirk crawled onto the french woman’s features, and combined with the look in her eyes, John was very strongly reminded of none other than Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. 

“Alright, I’ll bite.” John spoke up for the first time, a long suffering sigh leaving his lips. “You’re another Holmes aren’t you.”

“Obviously.” three voices say at once in almost the exact same tone of indignation at the mere suggestion of the contrary. 

“Mycie!” Marinette exclaimed excitedly, “Nice to see you again!”

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

“I see you aren’t dead. That’s a relief.” Mycort said in the same slightly condescending tone he always uses though this time there was just a tinge of worry and annoyance to it as he looked the short woman over.   
Said woman marched right up to the British Government and slapped him across the face the same way she had done to Sherlock. Though a notable difference was that his head snapped to the side with the force of it. So either Sherlock was a lot more used to being slapped -extremely likely- or Mycroft was surprised by the action. John found that he greatly enjoyed both explanations, though it did make him worry a little bit about the consulting detective. 

“I am assuming that was for not informing you about Sherlock’s continued existence.” Mycroft said in that tone of his and even John could see the french woman’s eyebrow twitch in a way that the doctor had long ago learned was not indicative of a rather unpleasant upcoming encounter. And he was proven right as the short bluenette slapped Mycroft across his other cheek. His head snapped to the side this time too and he reached up to touch the rapidly reddening area, surprised. So he hadn’t anticipated the second hit. Good to know. Aslo, for a small woman, the third Holmes had an immense amount of strength and she knew how to hit.

Besides him, Sherlock let out a triumphant sounding crow, as if only being slapped once was better than being slapped twice by their relative. To be honest, that was probably a scarily accurate thing because the Holmes’s were strange and morbid -not unlike the Addams family now that he thought about it. The mental image of the three Holmes’s he knew dressed as the Addams’s family was quite hilarious and it took nearly all of the self control he had for him not to laugh out loud. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him and John smiled in a way he knew conveyed the message ‘I’ll tell you later cause it's not appropriate to say right now’. Sherlock gave him a satisfied nod and turned back to his relatives. 

The french woman now had a stunned Mycroft wrapped up tight in a hug with his arms trapped by his sides and a mildly uncomfortable expression on his face. John wished he had a camera to capture the moment and possibly blackmail the older Holmes brother with it. The good thing was that she wasn’t crying this time but she was babbling in rapid fire french that John had no hope of following even in the slightest so he wandered into the apartment to take a look at the crime scene within, because there would be no way that Donovan and Lestarde were on scene without a murder - plus the knife and clothes comment by the french woman was pretty telling. 

Moments later Marinette came striding in after him, both Holmes’s brother’s wrists within her clothes as she dragged them in behind her. Sherlock didn’t act as if anything peculiar was going on and Mycroft looked resolute to ignore that fact that he was being dragged along by 150 cm tall French woman who looked like a gust of wind could knock her over. John, as well as many of the officers present who knew -or knew of- the Holmes brothers found the sight hilarious. Lestrade took a picture and upon looking at it, he noticed that the French woman was winking right at the camera with a playful expression on her face. Honestly, he knew he shouldn’t be surprised and yet he was.

John watched them disappear into one of the bedrooms, the one with the window right next to the fire escape, with a raised eyebrow and a small smirk. It wasn’t often one got to see the great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes and Mycroft Holmes, the British Government get dragged around like rag dolls. It was certainly a sight to remember. He spotted Donovan across the room, talking to one of the officers on sight about the evidence bag filled with bloody clothing and another with a similarly bloody knife in it, and was pretty sure she was trying not to laugh. She was going to give them all hell about this later and John wasn’t looking forward to it but it was too late to stop it now.

Minutes later, the small statured french woman darted out of the room and quickly whirled around the joint kitchen and living room area, snatching up objects as she went. Her arms were soon piled high with little trinkets and a lot of the kitchen appliances. Everyone watched the whirlwind of a woman as she twirled and grabbed and grinned about the room. Most didn’t have the faintest about what was going on but John suspected -or he was almost completely sure by now, anyways. His suspicions were confirmed soon as the three Holmes’s exited the french woman’s bedroom with their arms laden full of suitcases and a few heavy looking boxes, most of which Marinette herself carried. John hadn’t realized that Anthea was in the apartment now too, but it should have been a logical conclusion to come to, since Mycroft didn’t seem to be going anywhere and was now darting in and out of the room, wheeling suitcases and stripping the bed apparently, because at some point, John was sure she walked out of there with a bundle of heather grey sheets obscuring the top part of her body. It was all a strange parade and while John was unsure of how, but he was dragged into it as well. John was apparently put in charge of taking down some of the heavier furniture that Marinette owned, though he wasn’t sure who had coerced him into doing it. 

That was the problem with having more than one Holmes in a room at a time. Things got confusing very quickly. It was pretty much a family trait of the Holmes’s to draw attention, create their own gravitational orbits that pulled people in, often in a way that neither party realized until it was all already done. That’s what had happened with him and Sherlock. The moment he walked into that lab in St.Bart’s he was pulled into Sherlock’s personal orbit, intrigued and high on adrenaline and so much more. He was pretty sure something similar happened to Anthea. The difference between the Holmes brothers and the french woman was that her orbit was much wider and densely populated but there was no one close to her. She was at the center of her own solar system, yes, but all the planets -people- that orbited around her, which was pretty much everyone she met, were kept far away, in the outer ring. Even Anthea was closer to Mycroft than anyone outside of her family was to the french woman. It all concerned him a little. 

It had taken nearly an hour -much less time than the average person needed to move out but none of the Holmes’s were average in anyway so maybe that wasn’t a fair comparison- but everything the French woman had owned was packed into a moving van, a cab and Mycroft’s car. It was a very strange day so far and while it was almost over, the last hour and a half more than made up for the rest of the day’s slow lull that had nearly driven Sherlock, and by proxy John, insane. But this seemed to cure that ache for excitement that Sherlock always had so John couldn’t find it in himself to complain. 

Once John, Sherlock and the woman John still didn’t know the name of were settled in the cab, said woman turned to John with a sheepish smile on her lips, “Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I am Marie Antoinette Holmes, nice to meet you.” 

John smiled kindly at the younger woman and nodded respectfully, “the pleasure is all mine.” And it was. Because even though having another Holmes around might make things a little bit harder to deal with, it would also make everything so much more interesting and John was really looking forward to it. Plus, she seemed to know how to deal with the Holmes’s brothers and no matter how much he loved Sherlock, a little help is always appreciated when it came to dealing with them. 


	4. Chapter 4

Moving Marie Antoinette Holmes into 221C Baker Street was surprisingly easy and quick. Then again, this was the Holmes’s. Nothing they did was normal and if it was than one should either run for the hills or be prepared to. Trying to understand them as a whole was a futile endeavor, John knew, as he had tried. There were some key traits all of them shared, such as uncanny brainpower, amazing detective skills and an unparalleled affinity for danger and adrenaline. All of these on their own would not be bad but the three together were surprisingly destructive and disturbing. Much like the three Holmes’s themselves. But John Watson was a doctor, a soldier, and -most importantly- Sherlock Holmes’s flatmate. That meant all three of those traits were welcome and enjoyed by him to some degree. Unfortunately being Sherlock Holmes’s flatmate, while good at accustoming to some unusual behavior that all of the Holmes’s he had met so far exhibited, did not -and very possibly could not- prepare him for the many and varying quirks of the others. 

One of the things that John noticed within a week of Nettie -she had laughed the first time he addressed her as ‘Marie Antoinette’ in a way that made it clear she was laughing with him and not at him and told him that Nettie was just fine- moving in that she was much more social -genuinely social, not in the forced polite way that the elder Holmes’s pretended to be- than one would expect, despite her distance from other people. She chatted idly with Mrs.Hudson, taking a genuine interest in what her new landlady had to say and had even asked her over for tea and cookies. Mrs.Hudson had beamed at the younger woman and shot Sherlock and John a look that the blonde man determined to be somewhere between ‘See now, finally someone who doesn’t think I'm their housekeeper’ and ‘Are you sure she is related to you Sherlock dear?’. To be fair, John could understand. He had a bit of a hard time believing that Nettie could ever be a Holmes’s or even distantly related to them but the familiarity with which she approached and moved about the Holmes’s brothers made it undeniable. He knew for a fact that Sherlock and Mycroft would not allow some stranger to behave this way with them and they behaved as if they had lived around each other their whole lives and while John didn’t doubt either of their acting skills, he knew Sherlock and begrudgingly admitted that he somewhat knew Mycroft as well -through proximity and requirement! Not because he wanted to!- and even they could not feign such familial behavior. Besides it just seems impossible for what he was told to be some elaborate plot or lie. Sherlock had looked genuinely shocked, saddened, and truly, properly scared in a way that John hadn’t seen since The Pool and The Fall even he saw the message on his phone declaring Marinette Dupain-Cheng -he assumed that was a sudnime that Nettie liked to use- dead. Even he couldn’t fake that kind of emotion. So John took it all in stride and accepted this sudden change just like he had done with just about everything that had happened since he met Sherlock bloody Holmes who could not for the life of him stop at anything ever. 

Anyway, he was getting off track. Despite that, he could not be hard on himself, as it was hard to stay on task or even focus on a single bloody cuppa when there were two Holmes’s in the same building at the same time. Mostly because they were almost walking, talking contradictions of one another. Sherlock spoke but it was always filled with important information, almost never idle chatter while in the short time that he had known her John had never heard Nettie make anything other than idle small talk, offering up nothing about either herself or those around her other than what happened at the crime scene. Then there was the physical distance they both kept. Sherlock often completely ignored the very concept of personal space but almost never did he engage in casual touches, while Nettie always kept her respectfully kept her distance but always made some sort of small, near insignificant physical contact once allowed into someone’s space. From there John could go on and on but none of it really surprised him. He got accustomed to the strange and macabre long ago, some of it even before he had ever met Sherlock. He didn’t mind the differences. He actually embraced some of them. 

One of the things that John absolutely adored was that Nettie cooked. Well, baked mostly. It was a strange little surprise but John was under no circumstances going to object to the plate of cookies and pastries set on some unoccupied surface in his and Sherlock’s flat. Especially when it became clear that Sherlock absentmindedly grabbed a few and occasionally popped them in his mouth to eat. That was when he realized that the below average size and large portion of those sweets was meant to be convenient and their placement was always deliberate. Most of the time John himself was able to coax Sherlock into eating, though it took a lot of effort to get him to consume any nutrients on what could almost be considered a semi-regular basis. It turns out leaving small, bite size foods in places he has easy access to encouraged him to consume food. Or maybe it was the displeased glare Nettie shot his way when John had told her about Sherlock’s eating habits. Either way it worked and John had one less Sherlock-related thing to worry about, so he really couldn’t complain. Upon asking Mrs.Hudson, he soon learned that Nettie has somewhat of a habit of leaving food, especially sweets, about both of their apartments. Turns out their landlady’s comment about Nettie being a sweet girl was true in more ways than one. 

A week after Nettie had moved into 221C Baker Street, John came home to Sherlock standing on a box in the middle of their living room with his arms up. He looked almost like a pin cushion. A pin cushion made out of silk and velvet with no shirt but a pincushion nonetheless. It was a little amusing and if John’s gaze lingered just a bit on the flat plans of Sherlock’s torso than he wasn’t going to comment on it. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him as the doctor looking Sherlock-the-pin-cushion up and down with a slightly amused expression. He tried not to think about how ridiculously tempting the contrast between Sherlock’s pale skin and the black velvet of the dress pants low on his hips made Sherlock look. 

“What’s the occasion?” the blonde man finally asked, setting the Tesco bags down in the doorway and shedding his jacket.

“Both of you need new suits. For a case, apparently.” Nettie’s voice floated into the living room from the kitchen as she stepped back into the room with a needle between her teeth, a pincushion on her wrist and a measuring tape wrapped around her neck. 

“For the Shakespeare sonnet killer case?” John’s eyebrows drew together. That made no sense. That case was over -the killer was in custody and everything- and the targets had all always been found in the red light district, dressed for a night out on the town and not for a fancy gala or something like it looked Sherlock and Nettie were preparing for.

“No. A new one. From Mycroft.” Sherlock very nearly snarled and would have probably dropped his arms if Nettie hadn’t dilibaretly poked him in the side with a pin and glared up at him from where she knelt down next to the box Sherlock was currently standing on.

John had to raise an eyebrow at that. There was no way that Sherlock had simply accepted a case from Mycroft. He never had before, had no reason to do so now. So what changed?    
Nettie ever so kindly answered that question for him, “I accepted on your behalf. A good friend of mine is endangered by it. Plus, whatever childish riverly you and Mycie have is not worth the lives of dozens of forgien dignitaries not to mention the horrid state of forgien relations should the terrorist threat come into fruition.” 

“Alright.” John had long ago learned to simply accept these kinds of things. God knows he has helped Sherlock avert enough terrorist threats on behalf of the British Government. That’s nothing new, but…. “But why the suit?”

“Suits,” Nettie corrected as she continued to tailor Sherlock’s pants, jerking her head in the direction of the two plastic suit protectors laid over the arms of their armchairs. 

“You’re…. You made me one too?” John was incredulous. Sherlock needing a new formal suit, he could understand. The last one he had seen him wear was now burnt to rags but John knew for a fact that he had a perfectly functional and acceptable formal suit in his closet. Surly Sherlock told Nettie about it, to save her the trouble. 

“Your suit was deemed unacceptable.” Sherlock informed him with a small tilt of his lips, amusement that John knew for a fact that he was one of the only ones allowed to see dancing in his eyes. 

“Why? It was perfect functional and comfortable.” John couldn’t help but be a bit offended at that. He liked that suit.

“Yes but it is also about two decades old, faded and if im right, a bit too tight around the butt and upper arm.” Nettie mumbled, moving onto Sherlock’s other pant leg. 

“How did…. You know what, never mind.” John was not particularly keen on finding out why and how Marie Antoinette Holmes knew that his suit was getting a bit too tight around the bum and arms. 

Nettie looked up at him from under her lashes with a smirk and winked at him. “Now come on. I have alter all of our outfits. Put the suit on and see how it fits. I’ll be with you in a moment.” 


	5. Chapter 5

Standing here, in a room full of elegantly dressed people draped in clothes that cost more than his yearly wage and were dripping with accessories that could have paid decades of rent and expenses form himself and Sherlock, Doctor John Hamish Watson felt distinctly out of place. He was used to the Holmes brothers being the very image of casual, offhanded elegance but for them it worked. They dressed not to shove their wealth and status into other’s faces -though that was an unavoidable consequence of dressing in designer clothes at almost all times that someone took offence and attempted to punch them- but because those matched their own outstanding personalities. They were grace and elegance shrouded in mystery and intelligence. But the people around him dressed like this specifically to show of their wealth and possessions and status, trying to outdo one another with passive aggressive jabs and not so subtle emphasizing of their own assets. Frankly, it was more than a tad disgusting but John did not voice that thought and he kept a careful eye on Sherlock to make sure he did the same. 

So far, the taller man was content to just watch the room, eyes narrow and cataloging. John couldn’t help but wonder what he saw. It might be true that Sherlock’s skills shine when presented with a puzzle, a gruesome murder but it was no less fascinating to watch him pick people apart with a single glance, even if the world’s only consutling detective thought it far to easy to be any fun for he himself. But, a benefit of being friends with one Sherlock Holmes is that he has no qualms with ignoring social niceties and he and John were soon engaged in a very interesting game of ‘Spot The Scandal’. Even though John liked to pretend that he disapproved of Sherlock’s ignorance of boundaries and announcing of every scandal he came across regarding another person -well, he didn’t pretend 100%, more like 60%- listening to the brunette list off scandal after scandal about the high and mighty upper class had John snickering and trying to hide his grin behind his champagne glass. Judging by the smug look on Sherlock’s face -it was a microexpression but John knew Sherlock well enough to read it- he was not succeeding. 

Though John had to be honest about one thing. He looked like he fit in here, at least clothing wise. That was mostly thanks to Nettie, who had somehow sewn two very different yet elegant suits and a stunning gown for this event with only three days notice -John had half a mind to swear that she was magic. She had catered to both their strong suits, accentuating what had to be accentuated and drawing the eye to broad shoulders and narrow waists, muscled arms and runners legs, overall cutting a very masculine figure. John might not have had a lot of experience with suits made for this kind of event but he could tell from the uncomfortable squirming and adjusting and his own older suit that most of them were nowhere near as comfortable as the one Nettie had made for him. Most suits restricted motion, not allowing the wearer to rotate their shoulders, lift their arms, run or any number of other things yet John did not doubt that that wasn’t the case with this one. If one thing could be said about the Holmes people was that they defied the laws of nature and disregarded normalcy quote spectacularly. 

John felt a small but adoring smile spread across his face, no less genuine than the grin that previously broadcasted his emotions but it held much more palpable emotions. His devotion and adoration was clear on his face, he knew but in that moment he couldn't care any less because this was Sherlock. He should know that he was loved, no matter how frustrating and thick he could be. If he didn’t know any better, John would have thought that Sherlock’s expression, in that moment, had melted from smug to mirror his own. He really had to congratulate Nettie for the cut she choose for Sherlock’s suit, the deep midnight blue velvet of his double breasted suit jacket accentuating the taller man’s eyes, the sharp peak cut of his pure black lapels setting his cheekbones off and the black-blue of his dress shirt a beautiful contrast to his alabaster skin -John couldn’t help but thank Marinette for not including the top two buttons on the dress shirt. 

“Another?” Nettie’s teasing voice sounded from next to them, a smirk touching the corners of her lips as she held onto a blonde woman’s arm as the two of them jolted apart, eyes turning to look at the bluenette and her companion. 

John coughed, giving himself a moment to gather himself, “No thanks. Wouldn’t be good to get drunk on a case.” the good doctor always had to be the bloody voice of reason didn’t he? 

“Smart.” Nettie remarked, her smirk growing as her blonde companion raised an eyebrow at the two of them, her pericing blue eyes narrow and scrutinizing but not nearly as intense as any of the Holmes’s so John didn’t really mind though he was sure that she was used to a reaction much more visible and well, strong. 

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” Sherlock slipped back into character, not hint of his previous openness visible to anyone, not even John, anymore, “Sherlock Holmes, and this is Doctor John Watson.” John raised his champagne glass slightly as Sherlock introduced him.

“Chloe Bourgeois.” was the blonde’s flat answer, her whole demeanor screaming ‘unimpressed’. 

Nettie was smiling like the whole meeting was going swimmingly when in truth John felt the situation was closer to a ‘Moments Before Disaster’ picture because honestly, he had a feeling that if they left Ms.Bourgeois and Sherlock alone for longer than ten minutes, even Mycroft wouldn’t be able to perform a miraculous damage control operation large enough to sweep it under the rug. 

“And that,” Nettie smiled around the rim of her champagne glass’s rim, eyes fixed on a person behind Sherlock and John, “would be the reason we are here.”

“What, I’m not a good enough reason?” Chloe teased lightly, quirking an eyebrow at the shorter bluenette by her side, her blue eyes softening almost as soon as she looked at her. 

John suddenly felt like he was looking into some sort of distorted mirror, the way the two women stood and behaved. True, Nettie might have been the shorter one of the two but she looked almost identical to Sherlock with curly almost-black hair, eyes that seemed blue until you looked deeper and saw the flecks of so many other shades littered throughout and that was without mentioning the similarities between their skills. And then there was Chloe, blonde hair cut short, barley grazing her chin framing a softer looking face with cold, hard blue eyes that looked like they belonged to a broken woman and not a politician or aristocrat but she still held onto a small bit of levity, tried to appear to be in a better state than she really was, putting up a front to stabilize her Holmes. It was all there, those similarities, staring him right in the face and John had to fight the urge to close his eyes and cringe away. All those things he noticed, they hit just a bit too close to home. He might not be Sherlock, able to tell a whole person’s life story at a single glance, but he could read people. Years in the army taught him how to look for signs, how to be aware of his surroundings. He saw all of those emotions that played out between the two women in front of him, distorted mirror images, saw the fragility and despair and wilting hope. He saw himself reflected in Chloe and he couldn’t say he liked it too much. It made him squimsh and he couldn’t help glancing up at Sherlock from the corner of his eye. 

The brunette was taking a sip of his champagne, eyes fixed on Chloe, reading her like he did everyone but John could tell this was a more thorough assessment than anyone in the room with them had gotten all night. He noticed something too than, something that warranted the kind of attention Sherlock usually reserved for a particularly gruesome crime scene. John just wasn’t sure if they noticed the same thing or if Sherlock was just extremely critical of Nettie’s friends. To be honest, neither of those options boded well with him. 

“Of course you are Chlo!” Nettie sounded offended at the mere idea on the contrary, “However, I would never have been able to convince these two to come if there wasn’t a case involved. Even my influence has its limits after all.” -John didn’t say so out loud but he highly doubted that- “besides, two birds with one stone as they say.”

Chloe nodded begrudgingly, soft and reculantly understanding eyes still fixed on the woman in fresh-blood-red next to her, “I can understand that.”

“Now it’s time to go charm a terrorist into letting us into his house!” Really, only a Holmes could sound so genuinely excited and thrilled about doing something like that. 

With those parting words, Marie Antoinette dropped her empty glass onto the tray of a passing waiter and headed into the crowd to John and Sherlock left, a delicate smile on her features and her cheeks flushed. The skirt of her dress flared around, her bell sleeves filling with air and bellowing around her slight frame. Shoulder length dark curls and swats of pale pale skin almost completely swallowed by the color of fresh shining blood, making her look fragile yet dangerous. In that moment she reminded him of a short story that he had heard Sherlock mention a few times and an old copy of which decorated their bookshelf. The Masque Of Red Death by Edgar Allen Poe. Marie Antoinette was The Red Death, sweeping through a party full of the wealthy, only this time the Red Death was set out to save those and not destroy them but there was no mistaking that she would leave behind herself a trail of bodies. Though whether those bodies will be alive or dead is yet to be seen. 


End file.
